The Subtle Irk

Contains sensitive content relating to mental health & abuse.

On paper, Edward was everything I wanted. Since then, I have rewritten, burned and sprinkled the ashes of that paper all over the very idea of “a type”. If a type can be flattened to paper, the likelihood is the embodied personality will be two-dimensional at best. At worst, they will be an Edward. 

We were set up by my parents, so I suppose there was a baseline level of trust that was unwarranted. For the most part, Mom and Dad had stayed far away from my love life but when they met a relatively good-look American in London, who seemed smart, funny and “had his life together” as they put it. An important thing for parents; is that any potential romantic partner is sufficiently ‘put together’. Usually, this means some reliable and mind-numbingly dull job, living in some obligatory grey apartment and wanting 2.4 kids. If Dad has his way, they would vote Conservative and enjoy model trains. 

In any case, Edward was a newcomer to London and since my parents were acting highly out of character and practically gushing about him, I was intrigued. Where could be the harm in giving it a go? Never mind the fact I had time on my hands. Six months on from the catastrophic break-up with Ollie, I remained firmly in denial about the fragmentation my very being had undergone. Better not look too closely at that minor dumpster fire of my self-worth. Best to strike up a flirtatious conversation with Edward, which I promptly did. For a couple of weeks, we bantered messages back and forth before he eventually asked me on a date “of the romantic kind”.

My answer was “That’s my favourite kind”, a joke which sailed over his head like a hard-to-miss anvil. 

A date was set and he gave me very little insight into what it was going to entail. The only hint he gave was a cryptic offering of “Tiger Woods and Sciliy.” 

I felt this was sufficient initial information for me to make another teasing comment asking if we were going to play mini-golf whilst doing shots of limoncello. Again the joke landed with an unremarkable thud and I guess this should have been a second clue that this was a match doomed to failure. 

Ever the optimist, however, the date night arrived and I went through my usual vanity routine of changing my outfit six times before settling on what I had originally planned to wear. A low-backed, blood-red top with my blackest skinniest jeans. Hair floating in a blonde halo around my lightly made-up face, smelling of joy and jasmine, I waltzed out the door of my little London flat, confident and excited yet with my guard up. My new sensible, grown-up stance on dates now since the shattering from Ollie after I had given him everything so quickly. A half-hearted mantra had developed in my broken heart, a shallow sacred phrase that I was a prize, keep it light, keep it fun, you are a diamond to be won.

The burden of proof was on him, I owed him nothing. 

The first subtle irk occurred pretty rapidly. Edward’s plan was to meet on the station platform and I was somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t at least waited outside the station. Seemed like a basic chivalric move. But I moved past it and sought him out on the platform. He was shorter and stockier than I expected. We embraced and I became smiles and charm, gently probing about where we were going. 

“Very east.” He replied curtly.  

Considering I lived ‘very west’, we had a considerably long time to talk loudly over the rattle of the train car. 

Or more to the point, time for him to talk. 

Was it beneath the unflattering fluorescent light of the train, sandwiched between strangers sweating in summer heat that I first noticed the pernicious arrogance radiating off him?

Perhaps. 

Our first destination in “Very East” was the multi-layered restaurant of Eataly, which had been a favourite during my time in New York. Intoxicating smells of fresh pasta and rich Pomodoro greeted us and it seemed the night was looking up as Edward led me through the grand displays of Italian cookies. Light and colour surrounded our journey to the third floor where he indicated to one of the small resturant-within-the-resturant areas. A waiter who did not speak much English looked rather befuddled as Edward tried to explain we did in fact have a reservation in his gum-chewing American accent. 

Standing there feeling a bit like window dressing, I tried to smile at the young server and asked his name in between Edward’s patronising attempt to confirm we were going to have dinner. Myself a former waitress, I am ever confident that those in the hospitality are infinitely more deserving of respect than most. Eventually, the waiter found our booking and seated us at one of the small tables in the moody candlelight of Italian romance, as Dean Martin played from somewhere. Bread, olive oil and balsamic vinegar appeared and just like that, Edward and I were on a date. 

Of the romantic kind.   

It’s hard to inject much more exposition into the story of this date without describing the series of events like I am giving a police report. Conversation as we all know is somewhat essential to the dating process, and it was becoming apparent that Edward was unfamiliar with the concept but he certainly excelled at monologue. I attempted to volunteer information about myself, for he was clearly not going to seek it out himself. 

He listened with a glazed expression, clearly just waiting for his chance to speak again. No follow-up questions to my amusing story of studying Italian, so I cut the story short. My participation in this date was limited to politely smiling in between bites of olive-soaked bread and itching for some wine to make Edward’s laborious stories about the athletes he worked with go down better. 

The waiter became my hero when he gave us a much nicer bottle of wine at the discounted price of the one Edward had ordered. That little moment stuck with me. Edward was dissipating of the “poor service” while I was amused by the humanness of the interaction. 

The food was heavenly. I savoured my butter & sage ravioli, the taste of perfection that was transportive to Florentine hills and Chianti-soaked nights. 

Now, I am no food prude but the old advice about not ordering anything that you might look unattractive eating on a first date is pretty wise. You are creating an impression on this person, I don’t need to see neck deep in ribs, or with bolognese slopped all down your chin as you struggle to twirl your spaghetti. If I may be so bold, I would expand the “no food that you look unattractive eating” to include “no overeating on a first date”. Trust me, it’s not a good idea as Edward soon found out. He ordered oysters for one before moving on to the richest of all creamy pasta dishes, seafood linguine. He proceeded to finish all of that before requesting to polish off my heavenly dish. 

Unfortunately, it then seemed he had acidic reflux, for every few minutes he would fist his hand in front of his mouth and quietly burp. So unaware of how profoundly off-putting this was, he rounded out his mistake with a double Americano and still the conversation centred around him. So I half-listened and steadily drank. 

By the time we finished and were heading to the ‘Tiger Woods’ part of the date, I was the better side of tipsy, and a low-level irritation was buzzing in my head which only grew as Edward took a call the minute we stepped outside. He began walking, his hand occasionally flicking and pointing in a vague direction of where we were going. I trailed behind him, dying for a smoke and more wine, my frustration building at the awkwardness of being ignored. The mini golf place (correctly guess might I add) was a neon cave of lights and whirring bells, filled with date night couples. The minute we arrived, Edward hung up his client call and disappeared into the bathroom but not before throwing his jacket into my arms. I checked our coats and then stood outside the toilets for 15 minutes. 

15 minutes. 

That alone solidified the growing ick in the pit of my stomach. When he finally emerged apologising, saying his “tummy” was upset but better now, I swallowed a gag as the romance was shot dead in the face. Before I could scramble up some excuse about why I suddenly needed to head home, Edward had signed us up for the 9 holes of mini-golf with a twist and pressed another glass of wine into my reluctant hand. I was stuck on this date that I knew I didn’t want to be on anymore, I figured I might as well enjoy the competition. Since I have the fairly odd and useless talent of being amazing at mini-golf, I determined I would win.  

Effortlessly, seamlessly I tapped into my social chameleon ability and became ‘the girl on a fun first date’ as was expected of me.  

I did win. Then it really went to hell. 

After my triumph, as the scoreboard lit my name in big victorious letters, Edward sulked. Not a fun, “oh grrr how dare you win, I want a rematch” flirty good-natured loser sulk. No, this was a full-on “I can’t speak to you for 5 minutes because I am processing this loss” sulk’. A 38-year-old man, sulking because he lost mini golf. This date had moved light years beyond disappointment and finally arrived in the realm of disaster

We moved to the bar and sat in silence, myself a swirl of disbelief and growing rage at the childishness of this man. After nearly 7 minutes, Edward seemed ready to interact with me again and chose to begin the subtle put-downs. At first, I didn’t see it but a familiar feeling swept me, quelling the rage. The growing uncertainty at having anything to say because suddenly I didn’t trust or know the reaction. 

As the weight of Edward’s loss overcame him, he finally looked me deep in the eyes.

“I don’t know whether to smack you or kiss you.” 

Ice and self-preservation washed through my veins and the static in my head that had been so silent for all these months switched on again. Fuzzing and screaming. Flashes of the back of another’s hands connecting with my face, doors being slammed and all the memories I had been successfully ignoring were now lit up in neon in my head like the lights of the mini-golf.

My “fun-first date” role-playing turned Oscar-worthy as survival instincts kicked in. I laughed it off the comment as every adrenalin-firing neuron screamed at me to flee, go home.

Edward settled on the latter option of his statement. Before I knew what was happening, he was kissing me, in a loud bar, in front of a few dozen couples who actually wanted to be there. 

I went to that deep small place inside me. Mentally detached from the lips pressed against mine, the enquiring tongue that probed, the faint taste of seafood. I split myself. Let this sulking man kiss me and slammed a wall around my thoughts and emotions, willing it to be over. 

At least he hadn’t smacked me. 

On the train home. I could tell he was disappointed. Again the put-downs came. Accusations that I didn’t like PDA, that it was in fact me who had killed all the romance. Niggling comments that put me on the defensive and made me realise he might be drunker than I was.

A small, brave part of my soul attempted to explain myself, which isn't much good if you can’t do that with any honesty. I couldn’t say the real reasons at play. That I was repulsed by him, that I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to scream at him that he didn’t know or want me at all, that he was trying to squeeze me into the form of a woman. He wanted a pretty decoration, not a dynamic person whose skills, opinions and past hurt he could only control with threats.  

Finally, we parted ways on the tube. He tried to walk me home but I shut that idea down at the speed of sound, the thought of walking down a dark street with him pinballing irrational fear through my core. He puffed up in frustration and tried to kiss me, along with a comment that might have been an attempt to be seductive about “wanting somewhere new to sleep.” 

There are pillows in hell was my silent retort before I dashed between the closing train doors and waved pathetically as it took him away from me. 

In a numb daze, I walked into my temporary basement flat, half aware of taking my shoes off, climbing into PJs and sitting on the bed. The low-level pressure that had been building in my chest and head finally cracked. The dam of emotion I had been holding in was released. Heavy, groaning sobs came out of me. The weeping racked my body, I quivered and moaned into the pillow. 

The panic started—panic like nothing I have experienced. 

I tried to stop breathing at all as the air forced itself out of my lungs in rapid bursts of its own random timing. Whimpering noises I have never made followed each gasp of air that I scrambled to take. I thought I might die. I wished to die if only to stop this wrong way of breathing. I couldn’t remember what normal breathing was, and the static in my head was a screeching flat-lining whine. I tried to call anyone, everyone. I needed a trusted voice in my ear, I needed to be talked down. No one answered. 

So I surrendered to the tidal waves of accusing thoughts, the stolen breaths and let the panic have me. I rode the attack out for 45 minutes, letting it defeat me, offering no resistance until it had had its way and retreated. I collapsed into a deep sleep and when I awoke, the first thought in my mind was Ollie.